


by two he is scared that sleep is no friend

by woodlands



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Desert Island, First Kiss, M/M, Mutiny, Season/Series 03, silver makes a bad decision and flint is very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25043722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodlands/pseuds/woodlands
Summary: Two days of powerful storms not unlike the one that killed Muldoon, and when the winds calm, the Walrus mutinies.Flint goes overboard.And in a moment of lunacy, half a league offshore of a tiny island and with no real explanation to give himself or anyone else, John Silver goes over the side of the ship after him.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 32
Kudos: 151





	by two he is scared that sleep is no friend

**Author's Note:**

> [insert that 'rolling up three years late with starbucks' meme] hey guys what's up you ever watch black sails?? bc i'm ready to die for john silver

Two days of powerful storms not unlike the one that killed Muldoon, and when the winds calm, the Walrus mutinies. 

Dufresne, not particularly adept at rousing speeches but armed with several strong arguments and an unsettled, embattled crew, manages the impossible: Flint, mostly unarmed, hurtling overboard into the shallow water. And in a moment of lunacy, a mile offshore of a tiny island and with no real explanation to give himself or anyone else, John Silver goes over the side of the ship after him. 

Flint, he thinks, is never truly shipless; he stands on dry land as if bracing for the next wave, walks over sand as if his boots thunk instead against wood worn smooth from years of sea water. Even now, with the Walrus disappearing over the horizon, the sea air whips over them both and Silver can feel it by extension, the anticipation of another prize just beyond the reach of the spyglass. He wants to believe he has within himself the ability to resist that anticipation. He’s lied to himself before. 

Flint turns to squint down at him. Because of course, fate—or, more specifically, the spineless Dufresne—had chosen the moment without considering Silver at all, hadn’t checked to see if he might have only just worked the prosthetic off of the swollen stump of his leg. Or perhaps Dufresne had chosen the moment especially to keep his quartermaster at bay, struggling to shove the false leg back on. Whatever the case may have been, the end result was that he had gone over the rail after Flint without a thought, without his crutch, without his peg. And now he’s sitting unmoored in the sand because the alternative is standing with a hand on Flint’s shoulder, which he can’t quite bring himself to do.

“We need to get out of the sun,” Flint is saying. “Who knows what kind of water source we’ll find. If dehydration sets in…”

He nods, swallowing. “You’ll have to—“ he says. 

If Flint notices the way his voice cracks a little, he doesn’t show it—just reaches a hand down and then grips him under the arm when he’s halfway up. Together, they make their way up the sand, Flint half carrying him, half dragging him along. Silver’s good leg aches almost as much as the other; he must have pulled something on his way up and over the ship’s hull after Flint. The effort required to jump on it now feels almost impossible. 

There’s fifty yards or so of scrub brush before the tree line. “Wait here,” Flint says, depositing him unceremoniously and a little viciously in a small patch of shade under a bush. Then he disappears. Silver can hear him crashing through the brambles for a minute or two before the sound fades away to the waves hitting the beach in front of him and the endless hum of nature behind him. 

He entertains the thought that perhaps Flint will not return. That he will be forced to crawl through the brambles for better shelter or simply die where he’s currently dumped. An ignoble end, but probably a fitting one. 

Pushing himself out of his sprawl and into a more dignified sitting position, he brushes sand from his hands and surveys the beach in front of him. The shoreline extends a fair ways off to the left but curves sharply out of sight to the right. Nothing on the horizon now except the haze of the sun. 

Last night’s storm had thrown them off course but Flint will know where they are. Approximately. Probably. 

He scans the horizon again, then lets his eyes fall out of focus. The hum of insect chatter and bird calls begins to swell into a cacophony. It’s warm, and the sun and the breeze are pleasant on his skin. Someone unfamiliar with the West Indies might call this paradise.

This particular paradise will probably kill them, he thinks, and tilts his head back into the sand and goes to sleep.

\--

He’s awake when Flint returns, stalking up the beach with a mahogany branch in tow. He isn’t bothering to shoulder the load, leaving a line of disturbed sand where the branch drags. When he reaches Silver he drops the prize, such as it is, and sits down next to him. “Here,” he says.

It’s a crutch--or it will be. Silver leans over to pick it up and unsheathes his knife.

“So,” he says, starting in on rounding the splintered ends where Flint has broken it off, just above the fork of the branch, “What’s the plan.”

Flint nods back down the beach--Silver catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. “There’s running water up that way, two hundred yards or so. We’ll make camp nearby until I can find shelter.” 

Between Flint’s arm around his waist and the makeshift crutch at his other side, it’s easier going. It still takes them some time to get to the rivulet, but it’s well-situated, with a rocky outcropping at a bend just a ways up from the shoreline. He sits panting and sweating on a boulder, watching Flint watch him. “What,” he says, after a minute.

Flint just squints at him and then looks away, down towards the water. “I’m going to see if I can catch us something to eat.”

“You ever hunted before? Animals, I mean, not people.”

The smile Flint gives him shows all his teeth. “I’m sure there isn’t much difference.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.” He has no experience hunting game and barely any fighting other men. Not with blades, anyway. He’s been told he’s combative but it’s never meant much more than “annoying”, “talkative,” “fuck off, Silver”. No one has ever suspected him of being the kind of person who could wield a blade in any way that mattered. 

Flint checks him over once more; Silver knows immediately that his concern is for his leg. “Fuck you, I’m fine,” he says, hauling the makeshift crutch toward himself to begin working on it again. “Go. Hunt wild boar.” He waves an arm grandly. “Bring me back something delicious to eat.”

Flint rolls his eyes. “You’re a cook, aren’t you? Seems to me you’re just going to have to work with what you get.”

And hasn’t that always been the truth, he thinks to himself, a little bitterly, as the wood gives way to the slice of his blade. Making do with what he’s been given--it’s how he’s lived his life thus far, scrabbling for scraps, fighting to the death for slips of paper on the off-chance they might hold the key to safety.

Flint comes back with two fish speared onto the end of his blade and face red with frustration. They’re small, but better than nothing. In the meantime, Silver has managed to light a small fire with wood he found nearby. His range from the camp is limited, since the crutch is still sharp and full of splinters, but he’s managed to collect enough dead wood to make it work. Flint nods appreciatively and skewers the fish on a thin stick, holding them over the flame.

“Who would have guessed the dread Captain Flint would be a halfway decent fisherman?” Silver says, grinning. 

Flint glares at him. “Probably the same person to guess that John Silver might know the difference between salt and flour.” 

“Hey.” Silver complains, smiles at him, knowing it’s too open an expression but unable to stop himself. And Flint smiles back, just a little.

\--

By nightfall they have built the fire up enough to keep it going through the night. They’d argued about safety, Silver certain that the fire was a beacon to anyone and everyone within sightline, Flint certain they were on an uninhabited island and sure to benefit from a ship spotting their fire. 

The fish had not been nearly enough but would have to tide them both over until the morning; Flint is visibly flagging across the fire, eyelids drooping and posture tilted downward, pulled irresistibly by gravity and exhaustion. The ship had been seething with unrest before they left it, and he could tell without asking that Flint had spent several sleepless nights in a row. How else would Dufresne have been able to wrench a coup the way he did? 

He can admit to himself, reluctantly, that the sight of Flint’s humanity in this way is disarming, almost charming. Flint’s determination to other himself, to make himself more than a man to his crew, more than a human to his enemies--it’s something Silver has come to learn is both a wall and a ditch: it keeps others out and keeps Flint in. Watching him now, eyes unfocused as he stares at the flicker of their small campfire, Silver has to tamp down on a small curl of heat that unfurls just under his ribs. 

“You rest,” he says quietly to Flint, “I’ll stay up and wake you in a few hours.”

To his surprise, Flint just looks at him and then nods. He shifts off of the rock he’d been sitting on and lays down in the sand, facing away from the fire and away from Silver, out towards the sea. 

Silver watches the breath even out in Flint’s body as he drifts off to sleep. It rises and recedes in his chest with the waves, just past them on the shoreline, in, out, in, out. 

It’s dangerous. He has to look away, or he’ll forget he once knew how to swim.

\--

“Well,” says Flint, eyeing their prize with not a little humor in his eyes, “Color me surprised. John Silver, catching a pig.”

He’s laid out on the sand, breathless with triumph and the thrill of tackling a wild animal with some success. Sure, Flint had been the one to slit its throat, but Silver had caught it, missing leg be damned. He grins up at Flint. “Never let it be said that I don’t pull my own weight around here.”

“Never.” Flint reaches down and Silver thinks, crazily, that he is about to brush a loose lock of hair from Silver’s face. He isn’t, of course; it’s the pig he’s after, dead in Silver’s arms. He hefts it and nods back towards the camp. “Time to put those cooking skills to good use.”

“Joke’s on you,” he says, levering himself up onto his knee so he can reach for the crutch, “Randall did most of the cooking anyway.”

Flint snorts. “Yeah, no shit.”

“Not that he was any good either!” He shouts after him.

Later after they’ve eaten (the unseasoned meat tasting like heaven after days of nothing but scant fish) Flint sets about smothering the flame. He’d eventually agreed with Silver, that though the possibility was slim, they have no guarantee of their being alone on the island. Neither is armed with anything except the knives they’d carried before going overboard, and Silver’s crutch is makeshift at best and he’s not particularly adept at fighting besides.

When Flint’s done, he brushes sand off his palms. Silver watches greedily. Looks away, down at the water, where the perigee of the sun has just kissed the horizon line. Looks back, again, at Flint.

Flint’s eyes are on him, pale in the evening light. “Why’d you do it?” he asks. His voice is pitched low.

Silver knows what he’s asking but he won’t make it easy for him. “Do what?”

Flint rolls his eyes. “Follow me into the water.”

He shrugs, thinking about Flint going over the rail into battle teeth-first; of Silver pulling himself up out of the sea to follow his captain into the belly of a warship; of every damn time he has stepped into the space Flint abandons when he leaves a room. “You know how long days at sea can get, Captain. I was just looking for something to do.”

“Silver.”

“Fine.” When he makes eye contact with Flint again, it’s harder to breathe than it was just a second ago. He pauses. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

“You threw yourself off the side of the ship to keep me from finding that damned page.”

“Yes. But I was on the ship before then. The first time _I_ saw the fearsome Captain Flint, I watched you kill a man, a mutineer, and rise up over him with your teeth bared and bloody, like a wolf, and your mouth full of lies. That single act changed the course of the ship, and it changed the course of my story. The tales I’d heard… I took this as proof that they, too, were real.”

Flint watches him. Something coils inside him, tight and hot.

“I acted on impulse,” he confesses, “I was--it took me longer than I wanted to get back up on deck. I’d taken off the leg and couldn’t get it back on. I could hear the men, the bloodlust in their voices, and I. I have not always known myself to be cool under pressure. It was only after I was overboard that it became clear you hadn’t lost a fight to Dufresne--” Flint snorts. Silver can’t keep the rueful smile off his own face. “Yes, I know. If I had been thinking clearly I would have assumed you’d decided simply to go for a little swim.” 

“I can’t blame you entirely,” Flint admits. “Dufresne managed to push me over because by doing so, he found the one way of deposing me I had not the imagination to expect. Somehow, my _very_ low estimation of the man was still too high.”

“He’ll have lost the respect of the crew, I’d imagine,” he agrees.

“If not completely now, it’ll be gone the next time they try to take a prize. He’s clever with books, but he has no innate leadership abilities. They’ll eat him alive.”

That prospect leaves them smiling at each other, faces beginning to blur in the heavy dusk. There is just the smallest sliver of fire on the horizon now. 

In the dark it’s easier to allow himself some honesty. If Flint were to ask again, he thinks, he would not be able to bring himself to say anything other than the truth: _I’d follow you anywhere. If the sea takes you, it takes me too._

\--

Silver cuts his hair. He’s restless, and bored, and tired of the way it sits damp and heavy on the back of his neck during the high heat of the afternoon. He does it when it’s wet, just after a rinse in the ocean--pulls it all into a fist and runs the blade of his knife under it in one sharp, decisive movement. He drops the hair in the sand and then feels repulsed by it, pushes at it with his crutch until it’s close enough to the water line for the ocean to claim it.

He feels lighter, after. Flint gapes at him when he comes back up from the water, breeches on but his shirt draped around his neck, his hair soaking into it. “Cut the beard off next,” he says, smirking at Silver.

Flint has stopped shaving his own head and it’s growing in, making him look younger and softer and, somehow, _appealingly_ dangerous. 

He’s finding it harder and harder to look away.

\--

Flint has nightmares.

They still extinguish the fire at sunset, but they’ve stopped sleeping in shifts. Flint has done a circuit of the island in its entirety and found no evidence of human life beyond their own, and the shifts weren’t working, anyway; Silver kept drifting off after an hour or so, and would wake up in the early dawn hours to Flint swearing angrily.

So they spend their evenings stretched out on either side of the gently-smoking ashes of the fire. He tells Flint truer versions of the stories he’s told the crew about themselves in his Goings On reports, and Flint rewards him with an occasional low chuckle or half-interested query. Sometimes, Flint can be persuaded to tell a story of his own. These are not stories with the design to sway a crew of men, so they are not _designed_ at all; Flint tells them in fits and starts, as if translating the pages of a book he has never read in a language he barely understands.

Tonight, Silver dances around the subject of the Barlow woman until Flint sighs and relents. “We were fond of many of the same things,” he says quietly, and Silver tries to reorient himself in a world where Flint is capable of _fondness_. “She introduced me to many things that would later change the way I saw the world, or myself.” 

There’s a pause, and then he continues. “Books, mostly. I was fond of reading before I met her and her h--” The hush of a receding wave and a lull in the sea breeze converge to allow Silver a rare moment of grace: the sound of Flint swallowing, keeping something precious from coming out from the depths of himself. He clears his throat. “She shared her love of reading with me, gave me books from her collection that featured men who faced impossible choices but chose the path of goodness.” He chuckles. “Subtlety was not her strong suit.”

“She wanted you to leave piracy behind.”

“No,” Flint says, “--and, yes. She wanted me to make the choice that is right for me. And she wanted that right thing to be a--lawful life. It’s what she wanted, but she knew it was a fool’s wish.”

He tries to make out Flint’s face in the gloom; the moon hangs low in the sky but it’s a cloudy night. He hates, not for the first time, the smouldering embers between them, muted by sand. He wishes to run fingers over the lines of Flint’s face to decipher by touch if he can’t by sight. 

Flint falls asleep first, and the nightmares start, and Flint’s breath hitches on a sob. At first, Silver had thought these dreams were of a different nature entirely, but he’s slept in rows of hammocks long enough to be able to tell the difference; men don’t wake from dreams of sex by sitting bolt upright, blade in hand. 

He tries to let himself drift off to sleep, but Flint is mumbling now, frantic, and Silver sits up. “Captain,” he says.

Then, louder: “ _Flint_.”

“You _must_ ,” Flint says clearly, sounding agonized. 

He shuffles towards him. Flint’s still mumbling, and as he gets closer he can just make out Flint’s fingers, scrabbling in the sand.

“Flint. Wake up,” he hisses, leaning over him, carefully extricating Flint’s knife from his belt out of an appropriate amount of caution. “ _Captain_.”

And Flint cries out again, reaching up for Silver’s face as he wakes, one hand gripping him hard at the back of the neck. He tugs, and the force of it unbalances them both, and Silver goes down on one elbow over Flint, who is frantic, whispering “Thomas, Thomas--”, a prayer, a pledge. He presses his forehead to Flint’s and tries to get his balance back, breathing shakily.

Under him Flint is quieting, slowly, taking deep gulping breaths that rattle through him. “Thomas,” he says, confused, like he’s asking a question, and Silver can feel him tilting up towards him, nose brushing against Silver’s and just the faintest touch of lips against his. 

“No,” he says, pulling back but unable to extricate himself fully from the riptide of Flint’s unexpected tenderness. He makes himself clear his throat. “No, Captain. You were--dreaming.”

Flint’s fingers stroke down the nape of his neck once, twice, and then he nods, sinking back down into the sand and pushing Silver away at the same time. He sits back on his heel and scrubs a hand down his face. Then he makes his way back to the other side of the extinguished fire to lay down and stare unblinkingly at the night sky above.

The nightmares don’t stop, but Silver doesn’t interrupt them again. When he falls asleep, he dreams of Flint’s fingertips brushing against his skin, of the feel of paper under his own calloused palms, of sinking under the ocean and laying there, quietly, watching a ship above him ripped apart by fire and stone.

\--

They migrate up from the beach and into the trees, where Silver begins work on a lean-to. Flint spends most of the daylight hours roaming the island, hunting for food or scavenging. He brings things back with him that are useful: a concave strip of wood they can use to hold water; armfuls of marram grass to weave into sleeping mats; sticks he thinks might serve Silver better than his current crutch. Sometimes, he spends the day wandering the shoreline and comes back with small, beautiful stones, or a shell, which he sets down on the log Silver’s been using as a bench. Silver doesn’t thank him. Flint, in those moments, looks as if he might kill him if he tried.

The lean-to goes slowly; Flint assists him with the larger branches needed to construct the frame of the structure, and then leaves him to it. He’s grateful. Nobody needs to witness this, Silver thinks once again as he loses balance trying to correct the angle of the branch he’s just wrangled into place. He pushes the branch away in anger and sits, fuming. 

His leg is healing quicker now than it ever had on the ship. Without the prosthetic, he has no choice but to keep off of it. He keeps it clean because he has very little else to do--the hours slide into one another and he has to build a routine just to keep himself from going insane. So he cleans it in the stream every morning after Flint wanders off, and he cleans it again at the end of the day when he rinses off in the ocean. And he’s rewarded--or punished--by the replacement of sharp pains with the dull ache that will probably stay with him forever.

Flint appears, suddenly, coming out of the deeper woods and dropping something heavy with a sigh. He levers himself off the ground and lopes over to see. Improbably, it’s a huge coil of rope. He looks over at Flint questioningly.

“It washed up, the other side of the island, along with a lot of splintered wood,” Flint says. “I couldn’t see anything on the horizon, and without a glass... did you hear anything last night?"

“Cannon fire, you mean.” They haven’t had any storms, ship killing or otherwise, since they’ve been here.

“Yes.”

He thinks about it. He’d woken sometime a few hours before dawn, to a hushed world; Flint breathing shallowly a few feet away, the waves whispering against the sand, cicadas strangely muted. And he’d slipped back to sleep a moment later. “I don’t think so,” he says finally. “I woke up but could not say what roused me.”

“Well. If there was a battle last night, there’s no sign of it today.”

This island is barely big enough to house the two of them. They’re fucked if anyone makes it to shore with the intent on staying alive. They’ve already begun relying more heavily on fish for sustenance in order to limit their impact on the small pig population (he doesn’t look too closely at the long-term implications of that choice having to be made). “Well,” he says, eyeing the rope, “Thoughts on what to do with this? Might be enough there to lash together a raft.”

Flint shakes his head. “We don’t have our bearings well enough to know which way to head, let alone how long it will take. We have no cloth for a sail beyond the clothes on our backs. No food stores to speak of, nor any method of transporting water.”

“I take your point.”

“Perhaps we ought to string the rope up around the camp for something for you to hold on to,” Flint suggests. 

“Fuck off,” he says, stung. 

“That was not meant as an insult. That crutch is not well-made; I thought it might help.”

Silver glares at him, but he can see from Flint’s open expression that he’s speaking some semblance of the truth. 

“Fuck off,” he says again, and that’s a lie.

\--

No one washes up on their shores. He can’t decide whether he’s disappointed or relieved.

\--

Flint is down in the ocean, scrubbing himself of a day’s sweat and grime. Silver is reminded once again how glad he is to be no longer camped out in view of that spectacle, no longer forced to endure the mortifying struggle of not looking. He’s working on gutting the fish Flint brought back and thinking about nothing, when he pauses, horrified.

When Flint comes back, breeches damp where he’s pulled them on over wet skin, Silver is on him, lurching into him, pushing him up against a tree with his knife to Flint’s throat. He’s shaking with fury. The smell of the sea lingers, the salt of it sharp, Flint’s skin is everywhere, and the anger inside Silver is fighting with the wanting, not at odds but back to back, working together to slice his insides up towards a common goal. 

“John,” Flint says, calmly. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses. No one calls him that. “Fucking... _Shut up_.”

“Yeah, okay,” Flint agrees. He’s breathing hard in surprise and the movement echoes in Silver’s chest. Flint could unbalance him with barely any trouble and they both know it.

“You asked me why I followed you off the ship,” he breathes, unable to stop himself from leaning in closer, pressing Flint harder against the tree, bringing his own neck within hazard distance of the other side of the knife. _One wrong move and we’re both dead_ , he thinks. “I didn’t think to ask you the same. Captain Flint doesn’t get pushed off the side of his own ship. That’s not the end of his story.”

Flint is eyeing him, still so fucking calm. One of his hands comes up to rest on Silver’s hip, hot like a brand. 

“Why the _fuck_ did--”

“What do you think is going to happen,” Flint asks, no urgency in his voice, fingers flexing against Silver’s side, “When the men realize what they’ve done? Who their replacement captain is?” He tilts his head back against the tree, baring his neck to the blade. “They will discover, very shortly, that they’re _nothing_ without me. Without _us_.”

“Us? You had no way of knowing I’d be following you.”

“Didn’t I?” Flint asks, and there’s a glint in his eye that Silver _hates._

“They’re not coming back,” he spits, “We’ve been here, what, weeks? That ship is not coming back. Not for you, not for _me_ … What kind of fucking stunt… you’ve gambled on the men and you _fucking_ _lost_. And I’m the idiot--” He closes his eyes, opens them again. Flint is glowing in the afternoon light filtering in from the trees. “There are better ways to die, you know,” he says finally. The anger is leaving him just as quickly as it came. The wanting, well.

“Yeah,” Flint agrees amiably, free hand coming up to prise the knife from Silver’s fingers and toss it aside. 

And because he can always spot an opportunity, and he can feel it now in the change of pressure around them, that Flint will tell him any truth he asks for, he says: “Who is Thomas?”

It isn’t what Flint is expecting. His eyes widen, startled. Then he sags almost imperceptibly between Silver and the tree, unmoored. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Thomas was Miranda’s husband.” The names sound like porcelain, breakable in his mouth.

It’s a confession, but it’s not the whole truth. He watches Flint’s eyelashes catch fire as the trees above them shift and sway. “And you loved him,” he realizes.

Flint kisses him then, as if to push the secret back behind Silver’s teeth, or perhaps in thanks for voicing it, he doesn’t know. But each new sensation--Flint’s hand dragging up his side, Flint’s damp hair between his fingers, the sound Flint makes at the back of his throat when Silver bites down on his lower lip--each is confirmation: Flint is haunted by the love of a man Silver will never get to meet.

“Yes,” Flint says, when they pull apart to breathe. “I loved him.”

Silver’s head is bent; Flint’s words brush across his forehead. He’s never been so grateful to have a crutch to hang on to, especially now as Flint’s fingers weave themselves into Silver’s hair, tugging him back up for another kiss. He groans into Flint’s mouth. He leans into Flint’s body. He touches Flint’s neck with his free hand and hopes Flint can’t feel him shaking.

His good leg is beginning to ache, and experience has taught him that ignoring that ache for too long results in an undignified tumble. Reluctantly, he pulls back and shifts his weight a little more onto the crutch. Flint slowly extricates his fingers from Silver’s hair. 

“John,” Flint says again, and Silver winces. He takes a full step back, and then another, until he’s close enough to his makeshift bench to sit, stretch his leg out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Flint bend down to pick up the knife. It lands in the sand next to Silver’s boot. Then Flint is folding and unfolding himself to sit beside him in the sand, close enough that Silver’s knee digs into his side. “Here,” Flint says, holding something up.

It’s a chess piece, rudely carved. He runs a finger over it and then looks sideways at Flint.

“I’m not skilled at carving,” Flint says, shrugging, “And I remember very little of the way the game is played. But I thought. Well.”

Silver swallows. “I can teach you.” He presses his knee harder into Flint’s side. “S’long as you promise to stop calling me John.”

And Flint doesn’t quite smile, but the corners of his eyes squint upwards, which is close enough.

\--

The Walrus appears on the horizon some weeks later. Watching its approach from the beach, Silver groans. Flint presses his smirk into the nape of his neck.

"Like I said," Flint starts, and Silver turns in his arms and kisses him, just to shut him up.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @halewoods on tumblr and i'm spiraling into black sails hell if you want to join me!


End file.
